


work song

by WeeBeastie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst and Feels, Flint has issues too, Holding Hands, John Has Issues, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:57:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14183412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: my baby never fret noneabout what my hands and my body doneif the lord don't forgive mei'd still have my baby and my babe would have me





	work song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrapbullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/gifts).



> Written in response to a Tumblr prompt from my dear scrap, who just wanted some sweet soft boys being all touchy-feely with each other after being starved of touch for so long. <3
> 
> Nothing explicit here really but I rated it M just to be safe for one brief mention of sex. 
> 
> Title and lyrics in the summary borrowed from ‘Work Song’ by Hozier because it just feels like a Silverflint song to me, somehow. Idk don’t @ me about it just go with it.

The first time they touch, beyond just bumping into each other on accident, it’s- awkward. There’s no other word for it, really. Silver’s just pushed Flint’s coat off his shoulders and then they both spend a moment motionless, frozen, neither quite sure what to do next. Then Flint seizes Silver’s face in his hands and kisses him like he’s breathing new life into him, and from there things quickly get less awkward. 

After that first encounter, it’s the strangest thing - Silver feels like he just can’t keep his hands off his captain, like there’s some unseen force compelling him to touch Flint at all times. What’s more, it would seem as though Flint feels it too, based on just how often they end up entangled in one another. 

Flint, Silver quickly discovers, can indeed be very tactile for a man who at first seems rather standoffish. He’s fond of sliding one hand under Silver’s long hair to rest on the back of his neck, and also of covertly grabbing Silver’s hand when he thinks no one is looking their way. Sometimes he holds on for a good while, his palm warm and dry and rough against Silver’s own; sometimes he just squeezes and immediately lets go. He also seems to like getting the scent of Silver in his nose and keeping it there - Silver wakes sometimes in the middle of the night to Flint nuzzling insistently under his arm or fast asleep on the broad expanse of his chest, drooling in the hollow of his throat. 

They live this way, in each other’s pockets, literally and metaphorically. Silver will rest his hand on the small of Flint’s back when they stand side by side; when they’re alone he’ll run his thumb over the shell of Flint’s ear and marvel silently at how velvety, how vulnerable the skin is. He thinks the crew is taking bets on when they’ll marry. 

They fuck too, of course. There’s times when they tumble into bed and all Silver knows is the rough, right slide of Flint’s fingers inside him, the sting of his teeth at his neck. It’s just as good that way. But sometimes, in rare, still moments, they’ll lie undressed in bed in the dark and just drink each other in. Silver learns then how many freckles Flint really has. Learns exactly the shade of green of his eyes. 

Perhaps the thing Flint does that Silver loves best when they’re alone is that he sings. He’ll recline against the headboard of his bed of an evening and take Silver in his arms, holding him tight and safe in the circle of his embrace, and hum a tune or murmur words in his ear. He’s fond of a sea shanty about a place Silver’s never been, Mohee or somewhere, he isn’t sure. He also favors a sad, slow tune about a girl with long dark hair - when he gets it in his head to sing that one, Silver is like as not to turn around in his arms and kiss him til he just has to stop singing. 

Silver didn’t grow up being touched - not nicely, anyhow. He wasn’t the boy with kisses on his forehead and pats on his shoulders, with ‘good on you, lad’ ringing in his ears. He’s not even sure if he really remembers his mother or if he’s just cobbled together an image of her from other women he’s known. It took him being touched by Flint that first time to put a name to the longing, the hollow ache he’d felt - feeling Flint’s hands bracketing his face, his lips pressed to his, he’d thought _ah, yes, here it is_. 

He isn’t sure how long he’ll be blessed with Flint’s touch, but he’ll take all the benediction he can, greedy and surfeit-swelled with it. When Flint gathers him in the surety of his embrace and murmurs ‘my brave boy, my mercy’ against the twists and turns of his curls, Silver feels what he imagines ‘home’ must feel like. This, here, is the only real home he’s ever known.


End file.
